


Can't Be Having That

by TheseusInTheMaze



Category: Markiplier - YouTube RPF, markiplier - Fandom
Genre: Consensual Non-Consent, Daddy Kink, Diapers, Face Slapping, Face-Sitting, Oral Sex, Other, Self Insert, Verbal Humiliation, baby talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 13:19:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7106500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheseusInTheMaze/pseuds/TheseusInTheMaze
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone left the bathroom a mess. We can't be having that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't Be Having That

**Author's Note:**

> Even more diapered Mark fic. Written for a request on Tumblr, albeit indirectly. I hope it's what you were hoping for, anon!

The bathroom is... a sight. Not a pleasant sight. It's not gross, per se. Well, it's gross in that there is so much mess. But it's not anything that would be considered a biohazard. Just a lot of.... 

“Blue?” You raise your voice, calling out the door.

“What?” Mark calls back. You can hear some video game music in the background – some Five Nights at Freddy's ripoff. 

“Why is our bathroom blue?” You begin walking towards the living room, your bare feet slapping on the hard wood floor. 

“It's not all blue,” he says. You can see him as you walk into the living room, sprawled out on the couch with his feet dangling over one arm. His shirt has a pink mustache on it, and his jeans are an old, comfy looking pair with a hole in the knee. 

“Why is there so much blue?” you ask, looking down at him with your arms crossed in front of you. You hate this role – nagging and telling off. It's one you fall into a little too easily without thinking, and you kind of hate that he lets you get pulled into it so easily. 

“I did another video challenge,” he says, his eyes not leaving the screen. It's rare you see him on a console – it must be something for fun, not for his channel. “Lots of blue paint everywhere. Had to take a shower, or else I'd have gotten it all over everything.”

“Did it occur to you to maybe clean the bathroom?” The anger is sitting in your chest, but it's a cold type of anger. An anger that will fizzle out in ten minutes or so. But... this might lead to some fun. Hmm. 

“I'd do it later,” he says, still keeping his eyes on the screen. “I will do it later, I mean. It'll get done.” 

“Eyes on me, Mark,” you say, trying to keep your voice from shaking. Code words, even well discussed code words, can be scary. 

His eyes indeed go to you, meeting your own. “Do you want me to keep them on you?” More code. Carefully discussed, parameters mapped out, the whole nine yards. and yet. 

“Yes,” you snap, and you put your hands on your hips now. “You need to clean the bathroom.” 

Mark's posture changes. He draws inwards, slouching, and his gaze becomes more furtive. “I'm busy,” he mumbles, his eyes avoiding yours. His voice has gone up, without losing his delicious baritone.

“Do you want to safeword?” You reach out for him, gently, your hand on his head, burying your knuckles in the floof.

“No,” he says, his voice is its normal timbre. “I'm good for anything.” 

“Anything-anything?” You keep stroking his hair, mainly to calm your nerves. Talking this out is helping. 

“No clothespins,” he says. “and my wrists are sore, so no rope, please.” 

“Got it,” you say. “But you're good for anything else?” 

“I'll say something if I'm not,” he promises. “Can we, um... can we keep going?” 

Your hand tightens in his hair. “Excuse me?” You pull his head back, forcing him to stare into your eyes. The light reflects off of his glasses, but you can see a glint of something familiar in his eyes. “What do we say?” 

“Can we please keep going?” His voice is softer, a bit higher pitched. 

“So why didn't you clean up the bathroom?” You pull harder, and he whimpers. You bite your lip, your toes curling against the rug. 

“I was gonna do it eventually,” Mark says. He seems to be trying to avoid your eyes. 

“Well,” you say. “Well.” You begin to walk. Your hand is still in his hair. He can walk with you, or lose some hair.

“Ow. Ow ow ow ow. Okay, okay, I'm coming with you, ow ow ow.” He stumbles after you – the height difference makes it uncomfortable for both of you, but at least your neck isn't at an odd angle. 

“So it's eventually,” you say. “Right now. It's eventually.” You let go of his hair and nudge him in the back of the legs with your foot. 

"But... I was gaming," he says, and there's that whine again. It kind of makes you want to kick him, but in a good way. 

Discovering your own sadism has been an experience, that's for sure.

"Well, now you're not gaming." 

"But I wanna _keep_ gaming," he says, and he's pouting. His lower lip is sticking out, and all you want to do is bite it. "We can clean the bathroom later." 

"Oh, so now _we're_ cleaning the bathroom, not you?" Your hand is in his hair again, forcing him to look you in the face. His eyes are skittering around, and he's beginning to blush. "As I recall, I'm not the one who got it dirty."

"But we both live here, so we should both work to make things clean, right?" He's mumbling now, the embarrassment getting strong. If you look down, will you see a lump in his pants? Probably. This kind of shit gets both of you hot and bothered, although fucked if anyone knows why. 

"It seems to me," you say, "that someone doesn't want to be pulling his weight around like an adult. Is that what I'm seeing?" You put your hand on top of his head (maybe on tiptoes, but you'd never admit to that), pushing him down. 

"N-no, not at all," he says. "But...."

"But what?" 

He doesn't respond. He just looks at his feet, and you bite back a grin. Okay, yeah, this is really hot. 

"So I guess you're not much of an adult right now, are you? Eyes on me, Mark." 

Mark's eyes meet yours again, and he shakes his head. "I'm totally an adult. I'm no bubble blowing baby!" He's almost snickering as he says the last bit, and you can't be having that.

"We both know that's not true," you say, and your voice is getting higher. You're actually cooing at him. You can see a muscle in his jaw jump, and he's getting annoyed. That's good. It's fun to get him riled up. "You're just my little Markimoo, aren't you?" 

"Don't... don't talk like that," he says through clenched teeth.

"Or you'll what?" You move your hand from his head to his shirt (less strain on your arm), and pull him down, so that his head is way down below yours. "Is the widdle baby going to throw a tantrum?"

"Stop talking to me like that," he bursts out, refusing to meet your eyes. 

You make a point of meeting his, and raise an eyebrow. You talked about that, too - eyebrow raise meant "is this okay to keep going?" - and smirk when he nods slightly, biting his lip. 

"Aw, Daddy's widdle baby is all pouty, isn't he?" You begin walking, dragging him along by the collar of his shirt, and his knees are at an awkward angle. "Since you made such a mess, I guess you can't be trusted to in the bathroom all by yourself." 

Mark pauses, stopping flat, and you nearly trip, yanking on his shirt collar. You're gonna need to get him a new shirt - the collar to this one is already starting to stretch out. "Daddy? Really?"

You look at him over your shoulder, momentarily nonplussed. Then you shrug, grinning. "It's a role. Why not, eh?"

"Fair," he says, and his body language goes back to how it was, turned in and sullen. "But I'm not being pouty."

"You totally are," you say, grabbing him by the arm this time, pulling him along after you. He's letting himself be pulled this time, shuffling his feet after you. "and do you know what Daddy does to pouty little boys?" 

"I can't take you seriously with that Daddy business," Mark says, his voice half teasing. 

"I guess I'll have to fix that, you snap, yanking him into your room. Using the momentum the two of you have generated, you push him into the wall, pulling his head lower than yours and kissing him. 

It's a vicious kiss - your teeth are in his lower lip, your fingers digging into his arms. He's going to be bruised to hell - you can't wait to see it. You tangle your fingers in his hair and pull his head to the side, beginning to suck and bite at his neck. 

"M-marks, you gotta be careful of...." He's shaking, his erection against your thigh and his eyes squeezed shut. 

"No, silly baby, there's just one Mark here," you say in that sickly sweet voice, just to feel all of his muscles tense up.

"Don't t-talk to me like that," he growls, and its his turn to kiss hard, his hands on your hips and pulling you as close as he can, his teeth nipping at your tongue. 

You pull back from him – another raised eyebrow. Another nod. 

“Take your glasses off,” you tell him sharply. Another first. This is a thing you guys have talked about, but the idea of actually getting to do it is... heady. 

“But I need them to see,” he says, his voice plaintive. There's still a bit of growl in the back of it, though. It is definitely sending a mixed message, but it sure as fuck wakes your arousal up. You like it when he's this discombobulated. 

“Do as your Daddy tells you,” you say, trying to put some growl in your voice. Mark doesn't protest this time – it's the first time he hasn't rolled his eyes at the title. Maybe it's finally sinking in. Or maybe he's just really, really horny. Judging by the thing between his legs, it's probably the latter. But who even cares, this is one of the hottest things you've ever done. 

Mark takes his glasses off, slowly. He folds them up, leaning over to place them on the dresser. Then he's standing in front of you, eyes cast down, breathing heavily, his eyes a bit glassy. The light is on, reflecting off his skin, and you can see the sweat beginning to dampen his hair. 

“Do you have anything else to say to your Daddy?” Truth be told, it feels a bit silly to say it, but it's so fucking hot making him say it. Making him blush and mumble as he speaks. It's possibly one of your favorite things. 

“That's a really stupid title,” he tells you.

You slap his face. Not too hard, and not in such a way to mess with his eyes or break a cheekbone, but definitely hard enough that his ear is probably ringing. He stumbles back, sagging against the wall, and you see the beginning of tears in his eyes. Slaps to the face _hurt_ , on a few different levels. 

“Aww... is the widdle baby gonna cry?” You rub your stinging hand against your pants, beginning to smile. 

“I'm... I'm not crying,” he mumbles, and there is indeed a tear tracking down his face, like something out of a bad movie. 

You slap him on the other cheek, a bit harder. You feel it in your hand this time, reverberating up your arm. His head jolts back, nearly hitting the wall, and he shakes his head, no doubt trying to get rid of the ringing in his ears. You put your hands on his shoulders, forcing him down onto his knees. 

“Little liar,” you croon as he shifts, his face now level with your crotch. This close, he can probably tell how aroused you are. “We should shut that little lying mouth of yours right up, shouldn't we?” You press his head forward, so that his nose is buried in the crotch of your jeans, the zipper pressing into the skin. It'll probably look weird when he pulls back, but who cares. Bits of his face are pressed against your more sensitive bits, and it feels amazing. 

He mumbles something, but you don't care about sass just this moment, you just want him to get your pants open and open his mouth. Who gives a flying fuck, his mouth is for pleasuring you right now. 

Your underwear is damp – arousal dripping out of you, almost sliding down one leg. You have a wet spot in your pants, musky and sticky. When he breathes across it, you shiver, the warm air a contrast to the cold fabric. Then he's unbuttoning you, slower than you'd like, pulling down the zipper, sliding them down your thighs. 

He envelops you in his mouth, his tongue swirling where it's appreciated, one of his hands on your hip, the other one... who cares where the other one is, his tongue is doing things, his lips. The wetness is dripping down your legs, no doubt making a mess of your pants. You'll have to punish him for it. Or maybe not for that. Maybe you'll just punish him because you want to. The thought of that is enough to make you moan loudly, and you're joined by his own moaning, as he draws away from you to take a breath. 

Wait a minute. That's an awfully familiar moan. 

You (regretfully) push him away from you, leaning forward and breathing heavily. “What was that?” 

His face is sticky with drool and your arousal, and his eyes are glassy and unfocused, from arousal, and the fact that he doesn't have his glasses on. “What was what?” 

“Did you cum in your pants, little baby?” You know that Mark makes a very specific noise when he's having an orgasm, a kind of drawn out, breathy moan that you're intimately (no pun intended) acquainted with. 

“W-what? N-no, I... no,” he says, but he's keeping his face down. 

“Stand up, then. If you didn't cum in your pants, we can get on the bed and fuck like normal people.” Inasmuch as you ever fuck like normal people. 

“I'm pretty comfortable down here,” he says, his hands going to the backs of your thighs, stroking in that way that always makes you shiver. “Maybe you should be the one calling _me_ Daddy....” 

“If you stand up and you haven't cum in your pants, I'll clean the damn bathroom,” You say. You're losing a bit of the “Daddy” headspace, but this is just too much fun. You're almost sure that you're right about this. You're willing to risk cleaning up all the damn paint. As an afterthought, you button your pants up.

“What happens if... what happens if you're right?” Mark's hands have moved between his legs, and he looks a bit nervous. 

“Well, then I guess you'll prove you're just Daddy's widdle baby,” you coo at him, smirking. This is way too much fun.

“Don't talk to me like that!” He stands up in one movement, bellowing in your face. You do your best not to back away, even though your heart is pounding. Best to remind him who is in charge here. 

“No, you don't talk to _me_ like that,” you bellow back, getting in his face. His breath smells like sex, and you want to kiss him. “Now move your fucking hands before I move them for you!” 

Mark looks down, cowed. He moves his hands, and you watch, shivering with anticipation. There is indeed a dark, wet stain, right by his pocket. His hands are pressed to his sides, and when you look back a his face, it's bright red. 

“Aw, did the widdle baby make a messy?” You're making yourself a bit sick with the baby talk, but you love the way it gets to Mark. There's a point, when he slips deep enough into headspace, that you can tell that it's not making him angry anymore, it's just getting him horny and confused. 

“M-maybe,” Mark mumbles, his eyes squeezing shut. 

“Eyes on me,” you snap, and his eyes whip up to stare into yours as you reach forward and cup him between the legs, pressing the wet, sticky fabric of his boxers and his jeans against his still sensitive, still twitching cock. “So not only did you lie to Daddy, you made a mess.” Maybe that was out of order. Who even cares. “So do you know what we're gonna do now?”

“Um... I dunno,” Mark mumbles, his eyes still staring into yours. Fuck, it's amazing to have this much command. This much power. 

“We're gonna get you nice and padded up, and then we're gonna have a little talk about your lying to Daddy, and the mess you made in the bathroom.” You squeeze his cock, hard enough that he jerks away from you, whimpering. “Does the widdle baby understand?”

“Y-yes,” Mark sobs, and part of it seems to be defeat – he's just responding to the baby talk, just taking it, not fighting back the way he feels he should be. Maybe. Or maybe he's just so turned on that he's having trouble thinking, even after that orgasm. 

“Good. Go stand in front of the bed while I get stuff ready.” The diapers you're thinking of aren't the ones you two sometimes play around with, when the mood strikes. These are the samples that you got on accident, with the ridiculous print and the weird shape. They fit Mark – barely – but he looks ridiculous in them. 

“You're using... those?” He eyes the little blue bears with distaste, wrinkling his nose. His headspace seems to be momentarily forgotten. 

“Of course I am,” you say. “It's for widdle babbies like you!” You set the diaper and the various supplies down on the bed, then get to work unbuttoning and unzipping his pants. His boxers are wet and sticky with cum, pasted to the skin. He winces a bit when you pull them off of him, and you cluck your tongue, snickering. “Look at all of this mess. It's a good thing we're getting you into something nice and protective.” 

You can hear him rolling his eyes – maybe you're smoothing it on a bit too thick - and that won't do at all, will it? You push him onto the bed, and he bounces, nearly bouncing off. He lies there, splayed and embarrassed, all pink cheeks and pants around his ankles. You pull them off, no trouble, and he's naked from the waist down, just wearing his t-shirt. His bare feet are dangling off the edge of the bed. 

The diaper crinkles when you open it up, and you eye Mark. “Lift your hips up,” you tell him, “and pull up your shirt.” Technically you should be lifting his legs up yourself, but they're long, and you like seeing him shift, trying to please you. 

It is an especially ugly diaper. The whole thing is printed with little blue bears with freakishly big heads and eyes to match. You're glad you're using it for punishment, because recreational wearing it would be... strange. At least, stranger than wearing any of the other ones. You know Mark hates them – that makes this all the more fun. 

There's a few minutes of complicated wriggling, and then he's properly situated on the thing, his whole body beginning to relax. The humiliation – even the humiliation of wearing these godawful diapers – is beginning to leave his face. Usually when you diaper him, it's a thing you do together, when you want to be sweet and nice and couple-y. Not something that's used as a punishment. Time to change things up a bit!

Mark screams when you slap his thigh, curling forward like a snail. He sobs, breathing heavily, his hands going to his thighs. “Oh god, oh... oh fuck,” he gasps, his toes curling. 

“Language,” you growl, and you slap his other thigh, hard enough to leave a slight hand print. He screams again, like he's recording a horror game, and you snicker, pinching both of the red spots on his thighs, making him arch against you, whimpering. There are tears dripping down the sides of his face, but that's not surprising in the slightest. That kind of tight, pinching pain can bring anyone to tears, just about. You like seeing him writhe under you, the way he jerks against you, whimpering and sobbing. You like the tears. 

“S-s-sorry,” he gasps, his hips arching forward, and oh my, he has an erection again. That is downright impressive – at his age, that's practically a miracle. He's pushing his hips forward, sobbing and gasping, trying to push your hand towards his cock. 

“Sorry who?” You pinch his thigh again, even more viciously then before, and that makes him cry out, almost bawling now. 

“S-sorry, Daddy,” he says, without a trace of irony. It's hard for there to be irony in your voice, when that much pain is rushing through you. You definitely approve.

“Very good,” you say, sliding your hand between his legs to squeeze the head of his cock. You can feel him relaxing again as you do it – the anxious relaxation of the aroused, but no longer the vigilant, slightly terror of more pain. “Who are you?'

“Um... Mark?” He pushes his cock into your hand, his head tilted back, eyes closed. 

“You're daddy's widdle baby, of course!” You squeeze the head of his cock, hard, and he groans deep in his chest, like a dying thing. That clearly hurts. Good. “Who are you?”

“D-Daddy's... Daddy's... little boy,” he mumbles, stock still. 

You decide to let him off on the baby talk, since he's quite distracted. and because the sight of him like this has you so turned on, you just want... you don't even know what you want. You want relief. Sweet, delicious relief. Who even cares how you get it. 

“Very good,” you say, adding the paper (he winces – it's as cold as always) and taping him in. You make sure his cock is pointing in the right direction – don't want to end up with him peeing all over his belly on accident, after all! Then you step back, admiring your handiwork. He looks adorable, all pink cheeks, pink mustache, and blue and white diaper. Hmm. 

Mark shifts, his legs splayed open by the thick diaper. His feet are flat on the floor, his head cradled by the pillow. He looks up at you, artfully disheveled, and something inside of you gets warmer and fuzzier. 

Warm and fuzzy. That's it!

“Stay right where you are, Markimoo, I'll be right back.” You head for the big closet, beginning to dig through the various costume bits and pieces. It takes a few minutes, but eventually you find what you're looking for. When you do, you drag it out of the closet triumphantly, to find Mark still lying placidly on the bed, his eyes half closed. He is deep into Little space, or something like it. It's refreshing, seeing him that relaxed. Even if you do still want to do horrible things to him. 

“Hi,” he mumbles, looking at you over the curve of his stomach. “What's that?” 

“Something I'm dressing the baby in,” you say, lying it on the bed. “Stand up, please.” 

Mark does as he's told, slouching in front of you. He leans his forehead against yours, then kisses you, gently. You let yourself melt into the kiss, your hands on his hips, where the plastic crinkles. Then you pull back, raising an eyebrow at him. 

“Did I tell you to kiss me?” You pull his shirt over his head, somewhat roughly. His hair stands on end when you do, making you snicker in spite of everything. 

“Well, no,” he says, and he grins sheepishly at you as you hand him the kigurumi. “But you look so... kissable.” 

“So do you, baby boy,” you say, but that's not entirely true. He looks more than kissable, wrapped in the big floppy fabric, and you actually growl, grabbing for him and kissing him again, harder this time. This isn't a sweet kiss, not a kiss for melting into. This is a hard kiss, with teeth and tongues. A demanding kiss, because he's _yours_ , and you're not going to share. 

When you pull back, both of you panting, you stare into his eyes, putting one hand on his cheek and raising an eyebrow. He nods. 

The slap is hard enough to make your hand hurt, and he cries out, but doesn't move his head, screwing his face up. Already, you can see the hand print beginning to swell up, his face turning red. There are a few tears mixed in as well, his face sticky from the cry and from servicing you earlier. You slap his other cheek, because you can, because you want to, and he howls, clutching at your hips, his fingers slid into your belt loops. 

“Get on the floor,” you groan, pushing him down. “Lean against the bed.”

While he does as instructed, you wrestle out of your pants, kicking them to the side. You crouch down beside him, looking him in the eyes. He's still turned on, still hurting, still confused in that delicious way that makes your blood pound deliciously in your veins. “When you need air, tap on my leg, okay?” 

He nods, and you take that as your cue to put one leg up on the bed, straddling his face. You can feel the heat of his cheeks where you slapped them against your skin, and you moan, pressing yourself further into his face. He clumsily begins to lick what he can reach, while you just grind, taking your pleasure from him. You grind against his nose, while his tongue laps at the place it knows to get you off. You're so close, almost there, so turned on that you almost don't notice the hand patting your leg, until you pull away. 

“How you doing?” You look down at his face, which is covered in your arousal and a few pubic hairs, his hair matted down to his face with sweat or who know what else. You probably should have done this before you diapered him, but he just looks too cute – too vulnerable – for you to resist. 

He nods at you, grinning slightly, and leans his head back in invitation. You accept the invitation. After all, it's only polite.

The pressure building in your belly isn't polite. It's something rough and primal, something mean and complicated that's make you bite your lip to keep from crying out as, once again, Mark's mouth envelops you, lips kissing clumsily and tongue licking and rasping. You cum with a gasp, fluid spurting out of you to drip down his face. 

You climb down pretty quickly, your knees shaking. You sit on the ground with a thump, and Mark pulls you over, resting your head on his chest, the fuzzy fabric soft against your face. It's only now, as you're coming down, that you feel the stubble burn on your lower bits. 

“You need to shave before we do this stuff,” you say, your voice normal. You're not really up for any more Daddy headspace right now. 

“This was a bit spontaneous,” he says. You can feel his voice rumbling through his chest, making your teeth buzz. 

“So you didn't leave the bathroom all painted up just to get punished?” You snuggle closer, holding on to the fabric of the kigu. You're almost sleepy, the aftershocks of your orgasm still twitching through you. 

“Well, okay, yeah. I did that on purpose.” He pokes you, gently. “But I think now it's time the tables get a bit turned, don't you?” He waggles his eyebrows comically, and you snicker a bit. 

“Like you could Top me in that whole get up,” you say, prodding him. 

“Watch me,” says Mark, and his grin holds a good deal of promise. In spite of your recent orgasm, you shiver, snuggling closer to him. This should be, if nothing else, interesting. 

Although in the end, someone will still have to clean the bathroom.


End file.
